The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting dim, flickering shadows across the cold stone walls of Caelan's chamber. He sat at the edge of his bed, bandaged, his chest still tender where the runes had been carved into him. Every breath felt like a negotiation—between pain and power, between exhaustion and purpose.
The light that filtered through the frost-glazed window wasn't warm or golden. It was pale and distant—like sunlight through fogged glass. As though the sky itself was holding its breath.
The world had shifted.
And now, so would he.
Caelan rose from bed, joints aching, skin taut over healing muscle. He dressed himself slowly, methodically—binding cloth over runed flesh, tightening the cuffs of his coat with a quiet determination. Today was the beginning.
He crossed the room and stared at the small writing desk. The magic lamp atop it had long since extinguished, but he didn't need light. Not yet. The vision in his mind was brighter than any flame.
He picked up the thick ledger—bound in worn leather, marked with a sigil only he could interpret. It was written in a cipher of his own invention, one that layered planning beneath prose and meaning behind margins. He tucked it beneath his arm and left his chamber.
The halls of Gravenreach Manor were quiet, save for the distant clink of metal on stone. As he walked, he opened the ledger and flipped to the page titled:
Gravenreach Ledger – Year One
Phase One: The Awakening of Veritas
Phase Two: Stabilize Gravenreach's Economy and Defenses
He flipped to the next page in the ledger, where only a single line had been written in stark ink:
Phase Three: Begin the Sovereign Doctrine.
No details yet. No diagrams or resource lists. Just the name—a declaration waiting to be fulfilled.
The Sovereign Doctrine wasn't a plan.
It was a future.
Not just stability. Not survival.
Dominion.
Caelan let his thumb rest on the words a moment longer before closing the ledger. Phase Two would lay the roads, raise the walls, and gather the voices.
But Phase Three… would teach the world to listen.
Phase One was complete. Veritas had awakened—the means to use mana not through traditional channels, but through affinity. Through gravity.
Now, Phase Two would begin.
He had started preparing it days before the ritual. Before even fully committing to the transformation. Because power without infrastructure was a blade without a hilt.
He would not rule Gravenreach—or anything else—through brute strength alone. That had never been his way.
Power was leverage. Influence. Systems.
And systems needed to be built.
He reached his office door and pushed it open, legs stiff but steady. The air inside was colder than the halls, the hearth unlit, but the space was clean and ordered. He moved to the desk and opened a hidden drawer beneath the writing board, drawing out a folded sheaf of parchments—maps, supply records, half-drafted orders. All of it prepared in silence, waiting for this moment.
He unrolled the main map across the desk. It was old and fraying, the ink faded but legible. Scattered notes marked territories, minor roads, forked rivers, and crumbled fort ruins. The North was a mosaic of forgotten ambition—abandoned mines, withering baronies, lawless gaps.
Perfect.
This is where Phase Two begins.
Not just recovery. Not even reconstruction.
Foundation.
Gravenreach wasn't a throne. It was a mausoleum. But even tombs could be reforged into fortresses.
He marked three key sites:
An iron vein near the dead Shale Hills
An old watchtower straddling the Icewind Path
A plague-ravaged village nestled beside the Frostfall River
He circled them, then drew lines back to Gravenreach—envisioning trade routes, defensive positions, resource flow.
But maps were only paper. He needed people.
Not just loyal citizens. Laborers. Soldiers.
A population base.
And for that, he would start with the only option immediately available: slaves.
Not common ones. Beastkin—slaves bred and bartered in the darker corners of the Kyrrhyn Empire. The continent's brutal wars had left thousands displaced, sold into lives of labor or exploitation. A horror, yes—but also an opportunity.
Caelan knew many such NPCs from the novel—side characters turned champions. Broken once, but resilient, powerful, and loyal to the ones who gave them purpose.
He penned a letter in swift, sharp strokes—addressed to the trader he had contacted days ago. She dealt in knowledge, black market trades, and sometimes, people. He listed specific tribes, traits, and even physical descriptions—names he remembered from the narrative, souls who deserved better than the fate they'd been given.
The price would be high. But it was an investment. And he would not waver.
He sealed the letter and rang the bell for a runner.
As he waited, he drafted another order—a notice for the temporary commission of local hunters and trappers. The forests surrounding Velmire had always been infested with magical beasts. Locals had fought to keep them at bay for survival. But now, Caelan would pay them for it. Incentivize structure. Create reliance on his coin.
On paper, it looked noble.
In truth, it was a pretext.
He knew—thanks to the novel—that deep beneath those woods lay a superior-quality magic stone vein. Four years from now, it would be uncovered by accident during a minor dungeon rupture and claimed by House Virelandt.
Not this time.
This time, it would be his.
He handed the sealed notice to a boy no older than ten. The child bowed nervously and sprinted off into the morning mist. Caelan watched him go, then turned to the final task of the day.
Field testing.
He made his way to the old outer bailey—once a training ground, now long abandoned. The snow was packed along the stone, and shattered dummies leaned against broken walls like forgotten sentinels.
Caelan stood in the center and closed his eyes.
The power wasn't gone. It pulsed beneath his skin, curled through his spine like coiled metal. The runes over his heart were hidden now, but when he focused, he felt them thrum.
He raised his palm.
"Down," he whispered.
A stone at his feet jolted downward—so hard it cracked the flagstone beneath it. Snow fell from the eaves in cascading sheets. A simple action. A subtle shift. But it proved his control.
He turned and whispered again.
"Out."
The air recoiled. Dust exploded in a soft burst, sending snow outward in a rippling ring. Not a shockwave—but a pressure shift. A gravitational vent.
He grinned, breath misting.
It worked.
But the ache came fast. The burn in his chest wasn't from strain—it was biological. His very cells cried out, drained from each use. Power like this didn't feed on mana. It consumed everything else.
He would need ways to sustain himself.
More food. Better recovery. Alchemical support.
By nightfall, the tower library was lit and warm, though the wind howled outside. Maps covered the floor. Books sat in loose stacks—magical theory, elemental physics, forgotten rites.
His plans weren't just ideas now.
They were crystallizing.
Tomorrow, he would test his power in harsher terrain. Snowbanks. Frozen lakes. Wind shears. If he could bend gravity, could he bend inertia? Could he manipulate pressure, or spin, or direction?
He didn't say it aloud.
Not yet.
But the question hung in the air like a promise:
If I can command mass…
…what else will kneel?
As the stars shimmered above and the moons waned into slivers, Caelan sat in silence, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
He wasn't just preparing to be a baron.
He was laying the foundation for the Sovereign Doctrine.
Not to conquer the world by force.
But to become the force it could no longer function without.
He was forging the weight that would tip the world.